"Yes, sure... Yes..." I turn around, open my eyes, and search for the shampoo. Only now do I realize it's a volumizing women's shampoo.

"Is something wrong?" Mark inquires.

"I don't have any men's shampoo," I admit with a shaky voice, "or shower gel."

"Do you think that's a problem?" Gromov asks seriously, and I blink in confusion.

"N-no. I don't know..."

"What's wrong, Karina?" He reaches for my hand again, and I jerk it away as if stung by a wasp.

"I'm fine," I say in a grave voice and wet his hair with water.

I scoop some shampoo into my palm and apply it to his wet hair. His hair is thick and stiff; I enjoy touching and caressing it. I lather the shampoo and begin to massage his scalp.

It's nothing special; I wash my hair the same way. Mark slowly slides down in the chair and tilts his head back to keep the foam from getting into his eyes. But there's a look of too-evident comfort on his face, and I steal glances at it.

He's too beautiful. Grandma Vera's voice rings in my ears as if she's right there:

"A handsome man is a man for everyone."

I first heard it when I fell for an actor in the first grade of school. He played a hero saving the planet, and everyone was in love with him. I didn’t even know his name, just that he was handsome.

When Grandma Vera saw Gromov's poster in my room, she repeated it patiently. Then her sister, Grandma Liuba, chimed in.

"What matters is that he's smart. A smart man will use his beauty wisely. And if he's born a fool, he'll die a fool, handsome or not."

And both of them looked at me as if I were about to marry Gromov.

I picture Grandma Vera with her brows furrowed and lips pursed. Did I mention she and Grandma Liuba were twins? Their thoughts were like copies too.

I pour the gel into my hand, add water, and spread it over his sculpted back, strong shoulders, and muscular arms.

Now, neither Grandma Vera nor Grandma Liuba is here, just a man who intimidates with his energy and brilliant, perfect appearance. Too handsome, meaning too much for everyone.

And I'm alone with him.

Struggling to stand, my hands, as if glued, slide over the bulging muscles of the same bright and perfect body.

I'm drawn to him like a magnet, and at the same time, I want to pull away, leave everything, and run. Because resisting the attraction is becoming increasingly difficult. And the most unsettling part is that it seems not only I feel this way.

At one point, I start to regret that the Gromov in front of me is alive, not his paper copy. I feel safer with his paper double. More at ease.

How many times had I kissed it and not felt as nervous as I am now, trembling from simple touches of his warm skin? What would happen to me if I kissed the living Mark?

A heart attack at eighteen is not exactly what I'm looking for or dreaming of. Maybe I should have worn the rubber gloves I use for cleaning toilets. I can just imagine what Gromov would think then. Comparing him to a toilet?

Mark stretches out on the chair, hands behind his head, legs splayed. I move to the front, spreading gel on his chest, and...

I see.

Oh, no. Why?

Why do I see it?

Of course, I know what it is, but I've never seen it in the flesh. And I can't say I dislike it, it's just...

It's just not possible.

Only now do I realize how ridiculous and superficial all my dreams have been. In reality, Mark Gromov has a trainload of foolish girls like me, infatuated with him. And so now, it's not about me.

It's about plain, ordinary male physiology, the kind my mother's twin sister, Aunt Karolina, told me so much about. We're both Karo, by the way. And it seems I've never spoken about it.

So now, for Gromov, I'm no more significant than the shower head I'm frantically gripping. Or the chair Mark is sitting on.

He's not even looking at me!

His eyes are closed, head thrown back. I'd think he was asleep, judging by the steady rise and fall of his chest, if not for the distinct contours of the body part covered by his boxer shorts.

It's like Gromov stuffed a police baton down there. Or a banana. No, more like a baton. Or it would have to be a pretty big banana. Green, hard, and long, like the ones they sometimes bring to the supermarket...

God, what am I thinking?

"Karo, what are you doing?"

I come back to myself when Gromov grabs my hand. Turns out I've been pouring water on his face. I didn't realize...

"I'm sorry," I mumble, confused, and look away. I withdraw my hand, Gromov sighs loudly.

"What's wrong with you? You're too nervous or..."

He stops, takes my hand again, and I stare blankly at the wall. He either guesses or is clueless, but he stops asking. Just takes the showerhead from me.

"Enough, Karina. I'll wash myself."

I fly out of the shower, lean my back against the wall, and stand there for a long time, breathing. I didn't know what this was: Gromov's torture.

I listen closely, the water keeps flowing. I don't even want to think about what he's washing now. I grab my phone. Better check the NVR, maybe I'm lucky and can see the recording?

That would be too much luck, a way to distract Gromov.

I log into the cloud server, authenticate, and can't help a victory yell when the phone screen displays a slightly blurry but quite recognizable image of a road segment with Mark's wrecked sports car.